


A Bouquet of Spoons

by trekkiepirate



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Domestic Fluff, Domestic Geraskier, Love Languages, M/M, Marlene still collects spoons, Mix of show and game canon, TALK TO ME ABOUT BB/MARLENE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trekkiepirate/pseuds/trekkiepirate
Summary: “Explain this to me again?” Ciri asks as she peeks over Jaskier’s shoulder at the array of ribbons on the shop counter.Jaskier flicks his eyes up, but Geralt is across the room selling the pelts of various animals to the merchant. “Our cook, Marlene, collects spoons.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, mentioned Marlene/Barnabas-Basil
Comments: 10
Kudos: 128





	A Bouquet of Spoons

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on tumblr posted the headcanon at Marlene still collects spoons and I thought, "Oh I've always agreed with that, let me write a quick ficlet about it". It has Geraskier because everything I write always will (sometimes OT3 with Yen as well)
> 
> (THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A QUICK FICLET: The Fic Writer's Lament)
> 
> (THIS TITLE IS THE WORST BUT I COULDN'T THINK OF A BETTER ONE)

“Explain this to me again?” Ciri asks as she peeks over Jaskier’s shoulder at the array of ribbons on the shop counter.

Jaskier flicks his eyes up, but Geralt is across the room selling the pelts of various animals to the merchant. “Our cook, Marlene, collects spoons.”

“Because she was cursed to be a wight,” Ciri nods, to show she isn’t totally devoid of the sad facts of the case.

“Spotted wight,” Jaskier corrects automatically, holding up a blue ribbon to inspect it. It’s a beautiful cornflower blue, which would go wonderfully with his eyes, but not with the intended gift. He puts it to the side anyway. His newest book of poetry has been selling like honeycakes in Toussaint and they’d stopped at Cianfanelli’s to change their orens and florens for crowns.

Geralt may complain about Jaskier’s magpie nature, drawn to the shiny and glimmery, but he couldn’t complain about how the man could find the slightest glint in an abandoned shack or off a well-trod road. Though the caches inside logs, he left Geralt to fish out.

Ciri nods, ever the sponge for monster lore. “Spotted wight, yes. Because Uncle Regis needed her saliva for something Father still refuses to tell me about.”

“And because said Father is who he is,” Jaskier contemplates a royal purple ribbon before setting it down again (Marlene may have grown up rich, but these days she eschews anything too fine, as if it reminds her of who she was), “he decided to do all he could to cure the wight, instead of killing her and just nabbing her salivatory glands.”

Ciri steps fully to his side and regards the ribbons. “Part of the curse had to do with spoons, so Marlene collected them for years and years. Which is why you and Geralt are bringing her spoons. Since she doesn’t leave Corvo Bianco much.”

“Ever, I think,” Jaskier lifts a green ribbon to the side of Ciri’s face. It matches her eyes perfectly so he sets it down with the other one he’s already planning to buy.

Ciri, observant as a witcher and a royal needs to be, grins at him. She makes do with sturdy leather ties when hunting on the Path, but there’s still a little girl inside her who wants to be as pretty as her mother. As both her mothers.

“BB wrote that she hasn’t left the grounds since she arrived. I rather think he’s sweet on her and is hoping to bring her to one of the festivals when she feels up to venturing out into the world again.” A lighter green ribbon catches his eye and he smiles. Perfect. “Ah ha,” he says softly, adding it to the other two in the small pile.

“Are we done?” Ciri asks, itchy as ever to be moving. She’d only been to Corvo Bianco once and then only for an afternoon. This time, the guest room as been made up for her (and the portrait of Geralt that is Jaskier’s favourite material object that is not an instrument has been safely hidden in their room) to stay with them over the winter.

Jaskier nods and picks up the ribbons, heading to where Geralt is piling their other purchases. Some Fiorano that makes Jaskier smile because Geralt knows it’s his favourite; Erveluce because Geralt likes it best. They’ll have to smuggle it in because Barnabas-Basil will twitch his left eye if he sees wine that was not produced by their own vineyard. He’s just about come to terms with Matilda and Liam sending a case of White Wolf every so often. There’s some herbs that don’t grow this far South that Geralt needs to make his potions and a long thin parcel leaning against Geralt’s leg.

“Here,” Jaskier hands Geralt the ribbons to add, winking when Geralt raises an eyebrow at the additional ones.

An indulgent smile and Geralt lays them down, counting out coins once given the total. Their purchases then disappear into various bags and packs, the wine into Ciri’s because BB would never dig through a lady’s belongings. Jaskier takes the ribbons and stows all but the light green ribbon away. He wraps it around his wrist until they’re at the gates of their vineyard.

Jaskier barely has his hand out before Geralt is putting a mess of gathered spoons into it. Some are a polished shiny gold, some wooden and chewed on. He arranges them with all the care a florist would show a courting bouquet and ties the ribbon around them.

It’s worth Ciri’s still slightly puzzled look for the smile on Marlene’s face when she exits the kitchen and sees her gift. “Oh, boys, you shouldn’t have.”

Despite the grey threading slowly but surely through Jaskier’s hair and the fact that Geralt is nearly a hundred years old, it warms Jaskier that Marlene always calls them ‘boys’.

She takes the spoon bouquet and fingers the loops of the ribbon. “I can use this to tie back my hair,” she says, shaking her head so her grey hair, longer than it’s been before, tumbles over her shoulder, “thank you. Do you know,” she’s gesturing them towards the small kitchen, where she hands over ham sandwiches, still warm, “Mr Foulty found the most lovely carved courting spoon last time he went to town.” She nods to where it hangs above the counter she uses most to prepare meals. “Says he got it for a song. Can you imagine? A gorgeous thing like that, basically being given away? I expect Mr Foulty negotiated the price down and was too humble to say so. He’s ever so clever.” A slight blush that has nothing to do with the heat of the fire coats her cheeks, makes her look decades younger.

Jaskier is relatively certain BB spent quite a bit of coin to have it carved just so. He wonders when Marlene will notice what looks like loops and lines are a pattern of interlocking spoons. A spoon covered in spoons; he almost laughs. Jaskier plans to have a talk with BB later about how sometimes people need words said out loud in order to suss out intentions. Meletile knows it took him and Geralt over two decades to finally find a way for their love languages to meet in the middle.

It’s odd, Jaskier thinks, seeing their relationship from the outside. It’s not unlike his and Geralt’s. BB is a quiet man, used to being silent and ubiquitous as a person in his position often is. His actions speak to the care and affection he feels for the people around him. Geralt spent years with no one to have a good conversation with other than his horse. He was forever telling Jaskier he cared with his deeds, even when Geralt couldn’t so much as say the word ‘friend’ aloud to him.

Meanwhile Marlene spent so long alone that she’s rather lost the trick of interpreting actions without words; she still talks quite a bit when you get her going, pleased to be able to speak properly again. And Jaskier, well, he’s always been a wordsmith, used to courting and being courted with pretty phrases that Geralt wouldn’t even know to say.

It took Geralt and himself too damn long to make their feelings known; Jaskier will be damned if he stands by and watches another good love burn idle for years.

Geralt is beaming as he introduces Ciri to Marlene, proud as a father could hope to be of his accomplished and brilliant daughter.

Jaskier falls a bit in love all over again at the smile on his witcher’s face, even more so when it turns to him and softens into the look that Jaskier had seen for years without knowing it meant that Geralt loved him.

But now he does know. He knows that Geralt loves him as fiercely and deeply as he loves Geralt. It’s proven by the way Geralt makes space for Jaskier in his life, though now he also makes space for Jaskier in his bed. Speaking of…

“Marlene, your culinary skills astound the senses, as always,” Jaskier bows sincerely, tilting his head so the feather pinned to his hat (which Jaskier thinks makes himself look very stylish “shut up Geralt you wouldn’t know fashion unless Roach told you about it”) doesn’t catch a stray ember. “We look forward to dinner with bated breath. But I think Geralt and I will get settled in and have a quick nap.”

Marlene nods, gently shooing himself and Geralt out of the kitchen. “Oh yes, have a rest. I've promised Ciri I’d show her how to make those plum handpies she favours so.”

Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand and they head across the foyer to their room where he immediately collapses face first into their large soft bed. “I love you,” he mutters into the quilt.

“Me or the bed?” Geralt asks, unbuckling himself from his armour with a laugh.

“Both,” Jaskier sits up just long enough to toss his hat and doublet off, toeing off his boots at the same time. He makes grabby hands towards Geralt. “Nap with me, my dear.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You were serious about that?”

Jaskier grins. “I am nearing fifty. I do not joke about naps anymore.”

His beloved settles into the bed next to him, their arms going around each other on instinct.

“We need to tell BB,” Jaskier yawns, “that he needs to-“

“-talk to Marlene about courting her,” Geralt finishes, their minds in sync as always lately. “I’ll try to suss out whether she’s be receptive to the idea.”

Jaskier kisses Geralt. “She is. I know these things.”

Geralt laughs, going in for another sweet kiss. “Because you’re a famous poet?”

“Because I’ve been in love with a strong, silent type before.” Jaskier feels himself drifting off to the beat of Geralt’s slow and steady heart. “And it took me far too long to realise what an extra helping of stew and a warmer cloak that was most certainly not sold “at a discount” meant.”

“I love you,” Geralt says, because he knows Jaskier needs to hear it.

Jaskier, for his part, pets a hand through Geralt’s hand and twines their fingers together, rings clinking against each other. He knows that Geralt needs the gentle touch as they sleep, to be reassured that Jaskier is there, safe and sound in his arms.


End file.
